


A Little Taste of Heaven

by prettybadmagic



Series: Heaven Sent [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rave AU, Recreational Drug Use, Yes Fluff, candy kid sansa, incredibly tender, so so tender, westerosi edm festival au, wook sandor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25902382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybadmagic/pseuds/prettybadmagic
Summary: Sansa stumbles into Sandor at Electric Melee and sparks fly.A short tale of unlikely rave baes.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Heaven Sent [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885234
Comments: 30
Kudos: 113





	A Little Taste of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> _Title inspiration[ Little Taste of Heaven - Leach ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M2d8Qe8C3aE) (I implore you to find your best headphones, lie down, and give this a listen. Simple, beautiful, and so, so SanSan) _
> 
> She was a candy kid, he was a wook, can I make it any more obvious? 
> 
> I present y'all with a silly little piece that I knew I had to write as soon as the idea popped into my head. It's a tad bit more experimental than my other stuff. I wrote it in part to practice perspective and pacing, so be prepared for some abstract shenanigans. 
> 
> Canon disclaimer bc I’m a nerd like that: there aren’t angels in Westeros lore, not as we know them, but sorry not sorry, they’re in this story. Let’s pretend they popped up sometime in the last thousand or so years. 
> 
> A second disclaimer: I made up some substance names, kept others, you'll figure it out. 
> 
> Also this could be the closest I've ever come to writing fluff? 
> 
> Who knows. 
> 
> Enjoy.

Tonight Sansa was an angel. She was a wolf yesterday, and unicorn the day before that, but tonight, she was an angel. She had made the feathered half-cape herself, out of pretty white feathers stitched into silk, tied with a golden ribbon at her throat. She had a golden circlet, too. It curled around her two symmetrical (enough) buns, and dipped into a triangle at her forehead. 

The rest of her was glitter. That was what she had done _before_. 

She, Wylla, and Jeyne had gotten ready in their tent—hot, cramped, three days worth of dusty costumes strewn about. Putting on her stockings had been a whole sticky ordeal, but after that came the fun part. 

_Glitter._

Glitter on her hair. Glitter on her cheeks, nose, collarbones. Glitter on her boobs (the parts that weren't covered by her star-shaped pasties, so, most of them). She put glitter all over her legs, over her fishnets and her slim velvet garters. 

The three of them had pooled their glitter caches for the weekend, varying from cheap drug store finds all the way to artisanally crafted, glass-jarred concoctions from the trendiest influencers. Sansa was mostly Opal Princess and Icicle, with a sprinkling of Lion's Breath. Other than that, she wore only her cape, the tiniest spandex shorts she could find, and her beloved four inch platform sneakers (the white ones, with holographic moons and stars on the heel and glow-in-the dark laces).

Oh, and candy, lots of candy. But that was a given. 

After glitter came the night's treats: blue smiley faces. They sparkled too, and if you swallowed them fast enough you wouldn't taste the bitterness. That's what Sansa did. She took two of them, because Wylla took two of them, and then she had to do the same. 

She drank lots of water after. 

Then they said goodbye to their tent and all their precious things. Sansa didn't take her phone or her wallet, not even her chapstick. _Angels don't need chapstick,_ had been one of her last thoughts. 

Because after that, she lifted off. Her feet were on the ground, but her mind went somewhere far, far above, where angels go. Everywhere was music, and light, and the _untz untz untz_ that became your heartbeat. It was perfect. 

The three of them had promised to hold hands and stick together. Wylla was a mermaid, and Jeyne was just very, very sparkly. Sansa was glad to have her friends once they had pushed into the first mob of equally radiant girls and their pretty boyfriends. The bodies were close, all of them vibrating high to the frequency of the night. Flashing light painted their faces in chaos. 

When Sansa felt those come-up butterflies, she found Jeyne's hand and squeezed, as if that would keep her tethered to earth. But all of them eventually departed to the sky, only knowing reality in each other's wide, easy smiles. 

The music was their plane, but it was also _in_ Sansa's skin, in her blood, circulated by the rhythmic pounding of her heart. She danced, because that was all she knew how to do. Her limbs simply moved, as if they were bound to the bass by invisible thread. She might have been swimming, too. Trickling through a sea of sticky, sweaty bodies that shifted wildly, wherever the sound willed them. She was a drop of water. 

Time went away for a while. 

Everything went away for a while, except the patter of Sansa's pulse and open whiteness. It was so nice there. Her dad was there, and her mom, and Rob, and Arya. Even her baby brothers. They were all together again up north. She knew it was north because of the snow, glittering fields of it, as far as the eye could see. 

There was peace, here, in the snow. Her family was broken, but that was okay. She pictured them all together, all smiling. She could _feel_ their smiles. That meant that they weren't truly gone, just very far away, and Sansa would have to work harder to reach them. 

It was brutally, blissfully okay. 

Sansa was only remotely aware of the steady stream of water down her cheeks. It could have been sweat, hers or someone else's, or fog from the stage, or just water. But they were tears, lots and lots of tears. More than Sansa had shed in the past six years combined, and still, she knew everything would be okay. She had her breath to guide her, and the music to send her higher, so high she the only thing she could do was smile. So she smiled, and danced, and cried, and they all felt about the same. She was just alive. 

Time came back. 

The music was quieter, the mass of bodies thinner by the minute. That was when Sansa returned to her own skin. She was heavy again, flesh and bone. Not the sweet light stuff of angels. 

She was a girl, high on fras, at a festival. 

And most importantly, she was alone. 

Her friend's pretty faces were nowhere to be found. Everywhere Sansa looked she saw strangers. They were pretty too of course, and lots of them were smiling and laughing, but they weren't familiar. 

So Sansa decided to explore. She would find more music, or her friends, or _more_ friends, or maybe just a sip of water. That would be best of all. She was relearning her body, slowly. Her face ached, her throat was dry, her stomach was empty, and her muscles were delightfully sore. None of it seemed too much of a problem, though. 

More than anything, Sansa wanted to keep dancing. That was the beauty of a festival—you simply walked until you found music. There was always music. 

Sansa started walking. She knew the grounds well enough. This was her second year at Electric Melee, so she wasn't worried. She followed a trail blazed by swirls of neon light, careful to avoid greedy roots that would love to send her crashing into the dirt. The trees were so pretty at night. Their branches seemed to dance as light, shadow, and wind filtered easily through them.

Did the trees like all the noise? Sansa wondered briefly about the children of the forest, and what sorts of conversations they were having below her feet. Was it possible to _shut off_ a weirwood, if they didn't like what they heard? 

That made Sansa smile, and her smile made her forget about her feet. Her sneaker collided head on with something hard, and next thing she knew, she was travelling towards the ground, _fast_. 

She would have eaten a mouthful of stone if two strong hands hadn't caught her by the shoulders. 

A dog had saved her. 

She was face to face with a snarling cotton hound, with sharp white teeth and long strings of slobber dangling from its jowls. 

"Are you lost, little bird?" 

Her face shot up. It wasn't a dog—it was a tall man, the _tallest_ man, with a voice as rough and low as a canyon. The dog was nothing but a pattern on his tattered t-shirt. 

"I'm not a bird," Sansa started, "I'm—" but her words vanished into the dark. 

The man was handsome. He was older than her to be sure, but his face was cut like marble. He was a little scary, too. His grey eyes were as sharp as a dagger, and something was off—between the flicker of a nearby outcropping of glowing mushrooms, Sansa could see darkness _in_ his skin. The left half of his face looked like molten dragonglass. 

"Your face—are you—" her fingers were reaching up, trying to shift his long hair for a better look, but they didn't get far. Her hand disappeared in his. 

"Don't worry about it," he grumbled, putting her hand aside. 

She was still kind of worried about it. She hoped he wasn't hurting—they would need to find help. 

But the man didn't seem to be in pain. He seemed more interested in Sansa, which made sense, since she was more or less a naked, sparkly star. If she was a star, he was the blank space in between. His clothes were all black—the sinister t-shirt, his jeans, his giant boots—his hair was black, too. 

He was very, very dark.

_And ripped._

He could probably throw Sansa over the moon. She smiled at the thought. 

"What did you friends give you?" He cupped Sansa's chin and let his eyes run wild on her face. "Those blue saucer eyes are pretty enough, but you're clenching something fierce." 

She only partially listened. His hand was delightfully warm on her face. Gooseprickles lit up her skin like an electric grid. Did hands _always_ feel so good? Or was something about _his_ hands? It felt so new, as if she had never been touched in her life. 

His hand went away, and then he passed something to her, something heavy and metal. 

"Drink this. It's just water." 

So she did. He helped her bring the hefty bottle to her lips, since it was designed for someone closer to his size than hers, and her arms were as useful as soggy noodles. The water was ice-cold and delicious, the best thing she had ever tasted. She didn't drink nearly as much she wanted before it went away.

"That's all you get for now, little bird. Let's find your friends." 

Sansa pouted a bit while he stuck the bottle in his pack. She _did_ want to see Wylla and Jeyne, but what about him? He had given her water, after all. 

"Are we friends?"

He laughed at that. It was a nice laugh, a _real_ laugh, belly deep.

"We can be friends, why the hell not." 

Sansa smiled. She loved making new friends, and he seemed like he might need one. "What's your name? I'm Sansa." 

"Sandor," he returned. 

Sandor was a nice name. Sansa wondered if they should hug or shake hands or something, because that's what you're supposed to do, but before she could make a move Sandor handed her something else. A lollipop, the apple kind with a hard caramel center. 

"Woah," she chimed. "Is this for me?" 

He nodded. "All yours." 

"That's so nice of you, thanks." 

Sansa decided she should give him a hug. He seemed startled by it, since he didn't reciprocate at first. But eventually his heavy arms dropped around her shoulders, and Sansa felt all that electricity crackle beneath her skin again. He was so hot, and so _stinky_ , but in a good way—his body odor was distinct, strong, and herbal. Like good weed. 

She would want more of him later. But for now—

"Can we find the music?" 

"Won't be too hard," he replied. "I know just the place. I was already headed there. " 

And they were off. Sandor's long legs carried him swiftly down the trail, much quicker than Sansa cared to move. She was more interested in the lollipop. It tasted almost as good as Sandor's hug had felt, which was almost as good as dancing, or maybe even better. She would need a few more hugs to know for certain. 

The sweetness was enough to distract her until Sandor veered off the main path onto a smaller trail blazed by electric torches. The trees came in close, looming overhead like black and orange giants. And the people—at least the most glittery ones—were nowhere to be found. 

Sansa dug in her heels. 

"This isn't the way," she called to her new friend. "Where are you going?" 

"We're going to see Gallows, little bird. At Crow's Court." 

He came back to face her, so Sansa put on her best pout. She wasn't a bird, and she didn't want to see any performer with a name so grim. She liked festivals for the costumes and lights and the glitter, all the pretty things. She certainly didn't come to festivals to be scared _,_ or to hang around the stages in the deepest, darkest part of the woods. 

But Sandor laughed at her, showing Sansa all his nice white teeth and a couple of gold ones, too. "What are you, made of sugar? Afraid all your pretty candy will melt off your wrists if you sweat to a little bit of bass for a change?" 

He picked up her right elbow and gave it a shake, making the beads on her bracelets clatter like colorful pebbles. She was wearing the candy that Loras had given her at Tourney of Light, a stack of ten bracelets that made a picture of a red rose. None of the other girls had gotten a _red_ rose. 

Sansa took her elbow back. "So what if I am afraid?" 

"Don't be. I'll keep all the grumkins away." 

He didn't leave any room for questions, so Sansa simply said, "Fine. But you have to hold my hand." 

Sansa knit their fingers together and they set out again. She used Sandor's weight to keep her balance while she went back to work on her lollipop, assuming correctly that he would put his big muscles to use and keep her from falling. 

Eventually the narrow path opened to reveal a stage bathed in dark red light. Great metal trees with glowing red eyes and pointed teeth stood on either side of it, grinning wickedly down on the crowd. This crowd was darker and dirtier than the others, with far too little glitter for Sansa's liking. She squeezed Sandor's hand as he parted a sea of smudged, unsmiling faces, and soon he had her pressed flush against the guardrail. He stood at her back, his brawny arms caging her in on either side. 

Sansa liked it. 

He kept all the grumkins away, and he kept her warm, too. It was like her own little VIP booth. 

When she got her sucker down to the stick, she looked to Sandor for help, remembering how he liked to help her. He pocketed it with a sweet smile. It didn't breach his lips, but his eyes flashed bright, and Sansa knew what it was. 

She wondered where his friends were, and if he had gotten lost, too. 

She didn't have much time to linger on the thought. 

Fog rolled in from behind the twisted iron trees and filled the air. Red light cut through the fog, and out of the light came a black shape. It was a demon helmed in scales of steel, with its metal fangs bared and outstretched tongue foaming. A shadow ten times bigger loomed behind the creature as he stooped over a table made of gleaming iron bones. 

Sansa sunk her nails into Sandor’s forearms. She couldn’t escape now. 

Sound crept in with the fog—an ominous chant like the ones septons sing to the Stranger. But it began to build, to grind, all of the humanity replaced by the rattling of an angry machine. Then Sansa was _in_ the machine. It was pitch black, the fog as thick as crude oil. 

The machine was angry. But it was more than just one machine. There were dozens. _Hundreds_. Sansa was on an assembly line in an arcane factory, rolling closer to an unknown fate with every passing second. But the line was taking her higher somehow, up into the night sky. 

Were there factories in space? 

She didn't get an answer. 

She fell. 

Down, and down, and down she went, toppling into the nothingness of night, only to be scooped up and squeezed into the tiniest tube. Then she was chopped, and pounded, and sliced, and smashed into a million pieces. _Trillions_ of pieces. The machinery had her broken down to atoms, and then spat her atoms out into space. 

She only had a few blissful moments, scattered and suspended in the sky, before she landed back on the line. 

Then she went through the factory all over again. 

And again. 

Only after the third time did she dare open her eyes. She was almost surprised to see that she was intact. Her hands were right where she had left them. Everyone at the show had remained a cohesive set of cells and molecules, too. They weren't dancing, though. They were lunging, throwing their shoulders and heads towards the stage with every guttural _whomp_ of the bass. 

Even Sandor. His head thrashed to the beat and all his long black hair with it. He caught Sansa's stare and grinned. She probably should have been afraid of him, of all that blackness on his face that looked especially harsh in the flickering red light. The blackness had even seeped onto his lips, charring them at the corner. But his smile was so genuine that all Sansa could do was smile back. 

And then she copied him. She copied everyone. 

That was when she started having fun, and she decided that everyone _was_ dancing. It took more effort to throw yourself forward than you would think, especially if you didn't want to hurt yourself or grow tired too quickly. It was the perfect movement to match the mechanical whir of all those cold machines. 

With every lunge, Sansa's fright dissipated into the starry sky. There wasn't anything to be afraid of out in space, she decided. It was dark and empty, but there was freedom in emptiness, especially if you chose to throw yourself into it instead of shying away. 

Sansa lost herself dancing. 

She came back only briefly, when she bumped against a hardness in Sandor's jeans, because it transferred at a touch. A second pulse glowed between her legs and grew stronger every time she thought of the man behind her—her new, big, handsome, smelly friend. The friend that found her in the woods and gave her water, and a lollipop, and strong arms to dance freely in.

He brought her to the music from outer space. 

He was a very nice friend. 

When the music finally stopped, and the murky crowd began to disperse, he was all she had. Sansa turned to face him. He was just as close as ever, tall and dark like the surrounding trees. 

"Did you like it?" he asked. 

Sansa nodded. She would have said something—she had so much to say—but a sudden chill surged through her, and she was shivering much too hard to get a word out. Sandor furrowed his brow at her. 

"Are you cold?" When Sansa didn't answer, because she couldn't, he said, "Of course you're cold. You're fucking naked." 

Sandor dropped his pack to the ground and pulled his t-shirt over his head. He tried to hand it to Sansa. "This ought to help." 

But she didn't take the shirt. Not because she couldn't, but because she was distracted. 

He was _huge_.

Okay, she had known he was huge, but it was more than that. His colossal muscles were _covered_ in tattoos, a whole spiraling web of black ink. The glow between Sansa’s legs turned radioactive. _What a nice friend_ , she thought for a second time. That made her giggle, and when she giggled she could move again. 

She almost took the shirt, because of course she wanted it, but she realized—her cape. It wouldn't fit over her cape. So her fingers went to her neck. But once she had the cape off, she had nowhere to put it. 

_Unless—_

"Do you want to trade?" 

Sansa used her sweetest smile on Sandor. He was worthy of her cape, and he was always willing to help. He gave her a skeptical look, then shrugged. 

"If I must." 

"Perfect, um—" she tried reaching around his shoulders, but they were much too high. "You have to kneel." 

So he did. He fell to one knee in front of her and let Sansa transform him into an angel. A big, dark angel. When she was finished, she had Sandor put his shirt over her head. 

It was divine. 

Slightly damp at the armpits and full of his smell—herbs and spice and just _man_. Both the scent and the cotton made her warmer, but even so, her body went on shaking. It was a quiver, more of vibration if anything. 

Sandor shook his head at her. "When did you last eat?" 

"Um…" Tough question. Time had become a very interesting, non-linear shape in her mind. She thought for another minute. "I had a muffin this morning. It was today, probably. I'm pretty sure." She put a hand to her belly as if that would help her figure out what was inside. She already knew the answer. 

"I ate two blue smiley faces. I'm certain that was today. We did it before sunset." 

"Seven fucking hells," Sandor grumbled. "Two? No fucking wonder. That's Bloodraven's shit. You would have a fine time with a quarter that." 

"But Wylla—" 

Sandor's laughter cut her off. "Oh, I doubt Wylla knows what she's doing. Come on, then. Let's get you some food. I have fruit in my cooler, that ought to work." 

"Fruit?" Sansa loved fruit. 

"Aye, fruit. Let's get on. I'm fucking tired of being on my feet." 

They set off, back up the dark winding path with nothing but fake electric flame to guide the way. Sansa made sure to hold Sandor's hand, and she finally had time to ask all her burning questions. 

Sandor was from out west, she learned, from the mountains near Lannisport. He lived on his family farm. He had done it up real nice after the war, and he lived there with a horse named Stranger. He was thirty-four, and he probably didn't have a wife or a girlfriend or anyone else to live with because he didn't mention them. She had a feeling people were missing from his life, but she didn't ask. 

Gallows was his favorite performance so far. He said they deserved to be one of the bigger stages, and Sansa agreed. He told Sansa how funny she had looked when the first drop hit, tight as a bowstring, eyes wide as a deer in headlights. He said it was cute. 

Sansa knew he thought she was cute, because she had _felt_ how much he liked her, but she didn't bring it up just yet. He was taking her to his tent, after all. It would be a much better discussion there. 

So she asked him about other things. She couldn't stop the questions from spilling out of her mouth. Nothing felt better than talking, except maybe listening. Especially to Sandor. But when she asked him about his face again, if he was hurting, he answered, "You're a curious little bird, aren't you?" 

And then Sansa stopped in her tracks. 

"I'm not a little bird." She had meant to tell him all night. "I'm an angel." 

"That's odd," he came back, eyeing her up and down. "You chirp a lot for an angel, and besides, you don't seem to have any wings." 

Sansa pouted down at her dusty sneakers. Sandor was quite good at teasing her. She wasn't an angel anymore, not really, if anything—

"I'm a hound," she said, pulling at Sandor's shirt and staring at the angry, upside-down dog. 

"No." Sandor squeezed her hand. His face had gotten suddenly solemn. "You can still be an angel, if that's what you want." 

He went on walking, half-tugging Sansa along. He must have been more eager for fruit than her. 

"They're burns," he said after a minute. He didn't look at her. "From when I was a boy. And aye, they still fucking hurt, but I'll be fine." 

She didn't press the issue. 

They made it up a steep hill, and then around a few bends, and maybe a few more bends. They landed at a little village of tents, glowing like giant, colorful lanterns amongst the black trunks of the surrounding trees. It was quieter here. The bass was a distant echo. The breeze was louder, carrying with it the rustle of leaves and steady creaking of branches—a different concert of sorts. 

Sandor stopped at one of the lanterns, a particularly big, green one, and unzipped the front flap. 

"After you." 

His tent was marvelous, much better than the one Sansa shared with Jeyne and Wylla. Most of it was cushions—a wide foam sleeping pad bigger than any bed Sansa had ever seen, with pillows and patchwork quilts scattered about. All his other belongings were pushed neatly against the wall. 

Sansa cared mostly about the cushions. She dropped onto a pile of pillows, only deigning to sit up when Sandor put a bowl in her face. As promised, it was full of berries, with a handful of walnuts and almonds on the side. 

It was a bonafide feast. 

Sansa picked at it slowly, treasuring each bright bite, while Sandor fixed more food for himself. The cape looked comically small over his broad shoulders, but Seven bless, did it make his shoulders look good. 

"How did you get so big?" Sansa asked, popping a berry in her mouth. 

He turned back to her with a heel of bread in one hand a wedge of cheese in the other. "War," he responded. "Weightlifting ever since. Not as fun as killing, but it keeps me in shape." 

Sansa's eyes stuck to his body. His heavily muscled torso was as vivid as a book of fairy tales. A set of three black hounds guarded his heart; a bloody sword ran down his abs, flanked by vines and flowers. Then there was a scantily clad pin-up princess, a raven, trees, and scattered lines of ancient runes. He had scars, too. Deep red cuts and sunken bullet holes. _Tattoos of violence_ , Sansa thought. Then she shivered. 

When she tired of her feast, Sansa's eyes latched on to something else. 

"Can we do whip-its?" She dropped her bowl and reached for the canister, but Sandor got to it first. Sansa pushed out her lower lip. " _Pretty please?_ "

"Insatiable little bird," he chuckled to himself. "Aye, we can do one together, if you have it in you to sit still for ten bloody seconds." 

Sansa sat very, very still while he fished out a box of silver chargers and cracked one into the canister. But he didn't give it to her straight away—he released it all into a bright orange balloon. "So we can do it together," he said, passing her the balloon by the tip. "You can wait for me, can't you?" 

Sansa did, and when his own balloon was full, she leaned back on her cushions. Whip-its were best taken lying down, she had learned. 

"Cheers," Sandor said, lifting his spoils. 

They drank their nitrous together. At first it was just the absurd sound of heavy breathing, but after the breathing came bliss. All sound went away but the song—that's what Sansa called it. It was a simple song, a beautiful song. She was pretty sure it was just her own heartbeat in her ears, but that didn't matter. She was busy listening to the song. 

The song didn't have any words, but if it did, they would probably be ' _be_ '. Just be. So that's what Sansa did. She went away into the glittering white, and she simply _was_. She always came back from the white with a smile on her face, glad to be alive. Glad to be in a world with music, and dancing, and friends, and fruit. 

And Sandor. 

Sansa felt for his hand and held on to it, then she started to laugh. It was so silly, wasn't it. He was such an odd friend, all dark and handsome, with both anger and laughter simmering in equal measure beneath his skin. She almost couldn't remember how they met, until she remembered that it was when he had first called her _little bird_. 

But she had never been a bird.

It was all so silly. 

How could a man so foreboding, with half his face gone to ash, be so gentle with her? 

Maybe because Sansa had forgotten how to be afraid. 

Maybe she really had needed his help. 

She gave his hand another squeeze as her eyes fluttered open. She had liked the whiteness, as she always did, but the best part about going to the white was coming back. The first thing she saw was Sandor's smile. This one was soft, maybe even a little sad. He looked tenderly down at her, his grey eyes glittering. 

"What is it?" Sansa asked, but he just shook his head. She sighed, then entertained herself by running her fingers up his forearm. She had nearly forgotten about that glow, but feeling Sandor's heat beneath her fingertips made her light up all over again. She wanted more of it. 

Sansa pulled herself onto her knees and scooted in between Sandor's legs. 

"Hi," she said, because she didn't know what else to say. "Can I touch you?" 

"Touch me?" 

Sandor gave her a weird look that made her blush. But she answered, "I want to touch your chest, _please_." Using your manners was always a good idea. 

"Uh, sure, go ahead." 

It was just as fun as she could have hoped. His skin was warm and firm from the swell of his great big muscles. Most of the boys Sansa liked were much leaner, and much younger, too. There was something about a man _this large_ that just...hit different. Sansa thought about Sandor throwing her over the moon again and smiled, because she knew he would catch her on the other side. 

He dutifully answered all her questions about his tattoos, and he even lit up when he explained all the flowers and trees. They were ones that grew on his property out west. Bellflower was his sister's favorite, he said, and the poppies were for his mom. His favorite memories growing up were of spending time in the garden. His dad didn't want him to get soft, so he would bring a bow and arrow and shoot trees while his mom and sister pulled weeds. He smiled after he said that, but it was a fleeting thing. His mouth went quickly flat. 

Sansa understood. She had her fair share of bittersweet memories, too. 

She asked about his scars, and got mostly grisly war stories. Then she noticed another set of scars, matching clusters of dark red dots that lined the veins in the crooks of his elbows.

"What about these?" she asked, setting her fingers to the mysterious marks. 

"Those?" Sandor sucked his teeth. "I'm not so proud of those ones." He had to take another few breaths before he went on. "It was hard, after the war. Real hard. I got into heavy stuff. Milk, sleep, whatever it took to forget. Turns out it took a lot. I'm clean now, but I should have been dead many times over." 

Sansa's eyes rushed up to meet his. "I'm glad you're not dead."

"Well, that makes one of us." 

Sansa's lower lip wobbled, and a solitary tear fell down her cheek. Sandor caught it. 

"Sorry," she sniffed. "That made me so sad." 

"Don't worry about it," he said, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone. He took his hand away too soon. "You're too sweet. I'm worried you might really dissolve if you shed many more tears. You'll make a proper mess of my tent if you do." 

Sansa laughed, and so did Sandor, and then she wasn't as sad. His biceps cheered her up even more, and his chest after that. Her hands had gone lower, down to the tip of the sword on his abs, when she noticed he was still hard. Even through his dark jeans she could see it, _him_ , and he looked absolutely massive. Sympathetically, Sansa's clit throbbed. 

"You're really hard," she said before she could stop herself. Sandor let out a stunted laugh that sounded part groan. 

"You're not wrong." 

"But _why_?"

Then he really did groan, or it might have been a growl, something low and wanting that rumbled in his throat. "It does what it wants, sweet girl. Use your imagination." 

Sansa stared at him, debating whether or not she dared run a finger over his bulge. The thought alone made her heart race. She probably wasn't ready, yet. 

"Do you want to touch me?"

It seemed like a fair compromise. Sandor agreed, and he tugged off his t-shirt (now Sansa's) as quick as he could. She was done shivering, but the open air made gooseprickles rise up all over her skin. Sandor drank her in like he hadn't had water in days. She knew the look well.

Despite his thirst, his touch was cautious, a skirting of his fingers on her waist, just enough to charge her glow. The glow pried a tiny whimper from her lips, and then his hands were everywhere—big, warm vectors of energy that tapped into her veins and made her blood shine. Her heart was very loud. 

She wanted it to be louder. 

Next thing she knew, her fingers were peeling away her pasties, replacing them with Sandor's hands. That made her heart roar, _everywhere_. 

"Is that good?" she heard Sandor say, but it was almost as if he was miles away. She did what she could and nodded, then moved closer into him, a flower to the sun. Her back landed against his rigid chest, and his arms fell to make a haven around her. 

It was _very_ good. But Sansa's words surrendered to the fevered currents that surged beneath her skin. The currents connected every point in her body. A brush of her thigh felt the same as sweep across her chest, which felt the same as a twist of her nipples. She couldn't distinguish these points anymore. She could only guess. 

Sandor's hands might have been her own. She was less herself. She was brighter, her insides as luminous as a star. She wanted to match the sun, so she collected heat. It flowed through those currents and pooled weightlessly at her center. 

It swelled. 

And swelled. 

And then Sansa wasn’t sure where her center was. Everything simply _glowed_. 

She should have expected the supernova, the great, glaring whiteness that burst before her eyes. The song accompanied it. Her entire universe became the _thump, thump, thump_ of her heart, and she had never known such sweet sound. The feeling was even sweeter. 

Sansa was almost surprised when the earth reappeared beneath her. 

There were cushions. Some foam, some flesh, both warm and damp. Her hand was over her spandex, clenched tightly between her thighs. 

Her free hand flew up to her mouth. 

"S-Sandor?" 

"I'm here." 

"I think—" Oh, the blush was heavy on her cheeks. "I think I just came." 

"I think you're right." 

Sansa stared at herself, all folded up in Sandor's arms, trying to decide if she should be embarrassed. Her body was too light for the burden of shame. "That felt incredible." 

She looked back to Sandor in time to catch his smile. 

"Seemed like it." 

Sansa twisted around to face him again. "Do you want to come, too?" 

Her hands fluttered down to his belt line. He certainly looked like he wanted to come, but it was still important to ask. His breath started to get all low again, as if she had stolen his air. 

"If you're offering," he replied. 

Then Sansa's fingers couldn't move fast enough. "Lie back," she told him, giving him a little shove. He dropped onto his elbows as she undid all the obstacles in her path. This time, with starshine still hot in her veins, she was ready for him.

She took him from his jeans and smiled so wide her face ached—what a funny sight, a skin-tingling sight. His dick was enormous, red, and rock hard. It needed attention so desperately that Sansa almost laughed. 

But instead of laughing she touched him, circling her hands around all his girth and giving him a tight squeeze. Sandor looked as though he'd just eaten a lemon. 

"Fuck," he groaned, low-lidded eyes on her. "I think you might really be an angel." 

Sansa's smile didn't go away, even though her jaw could barely hold it. She really was an angel, returning all the favors he’d done for her. He _needed_ this favor. His pulse was alive inside of him, each throb as aggressive as red-hot coal. 

She was good with her hands (thank you, fifteen years of piano practice), so good that Sandor dropped back onto his cushions and stopped watching her. Then came the fun part. 

Her mouth. 

Swallowing fiery coal was a terrible idea, but Sansa had forsworn fear for the night. So she made a game of fitting him in her mouth, and using her tongue to find all his ridges and swollen veins. Her prize was his pulse. The better she played, the stronger his heart raged against all her sensitive pink skin. 

His size was novel, of course, but quite manageable. Even the biggest men turned small in Sansa's care—she had learned this with her paltry three boy body count. Sandor was weak for her. His massive hands clamped at her shoulders, her arms, her wrists, but he was helpless. 

Sansa had all the power, and Seven forbid, she loved to wield it. Her lips were such a sweet weapon, and her tongue all the sweeter. She wasn't surprised when Sandor gripped her elbow and growled, "That's it, fuck, I'm gonna—" and then her mouth was full. She swallowed everything, because where else was it supposed to go? 

Sansa straightened and swiped the back of her mouth to clear off her spit. "That was fun," she hummed. 

Sandor might have seen a ghost. All the hardness was gone from his face, even from the burned side. He tugged himself back up to sitting, zipping and buckling as he went. "Seven fucking hells," he grumbled. "You're too good to be true." 

She wasn't, but Sandor didn't need to know. 

"You know what would be even more fun?" 

"What?" 

"Dancing," Sansa said, grinning up at Sandor. She had missed dancing, for however long she had gone without it. "Let's do another whip-it first." 

Still helpless, Sandor fixed their balloons. This time, they lay back together, and Sansa took his hand even before they started to breathe. 

She went away, for the umpteenth time that night. It was so fun to go away. The white welcomed her. _Be, be, be_ , it told her. She was in the snow, but she was in the extra space, too, the dark space that flanked each crystalline edge. You needed both. They belonged together. If you took them in equal parts, you would simply _be_. 

That was how Sansa came back. A large, warm hand in hers. A warmer scent in the air. _Our air_ , Sansa thought. They had a shared story now, and it manifested as a sweet glow beneath her skin. Sansa smiled. Her smile made her giggle, and then she was laughing. Not her well-practiced, high-pitched flirty titter. Her _laugh_. The one that bubbled up from her belly and took over her entire body. 

Life was so, so silly. 

Sandor laughed at her side, but his laughter came slower. It wasn't so cutting as the kind he had used to tease her. Eventually they both went quiet. Then the only sound was breathing and the nylon walls rustling in the breeze. The bass was very far away. 

"Do you like coming back?" Sansa found herself asking. "Do you like coming back from the white?" 

Sandor was pretty quick to bite, but her question made him think. "I don't see white," he answered after a minute. His voice was sad. "It's just dark. It's always better in the dark. There's nothing there—no fire, no blood. It's all black." 

"Oh," Sansa breathed. 

She was sad now, too. 

And Sandor seemed to know. His hand came to life in hers, then he pushed himself onto his side. He hovered over Sansa like a shadow. She didn't know him, not truly. Sansa always made that mistake. She collected friends the way people collect postcards—flimsy, one-sided reminders of better times. Few ever endured. 

"I liked it," Sandor finally said, maybe because their shared silence had become too much. "I liked coming back, with you." 

They smiled together, but just with their eyes. Your eyes could speak much louder than your mouth. They glittered, after all.

Sandor's head came lower, and before Sansa knew, his lips were on hers. He only needed a little bit of her, because he was gone just as soon. "Let's go find some music," he whispered into her mouth. 

They set out together, hand in hand. Sansa wore her new t-shirt, because her pasties had somehow disappeared, and Sandor was still an angel. It didn't take long to rejoin the lights and noise and all the vibrant human bodies. 

Sansa was so glad to see it come flooding back. Everything was art—the sparkly girls, the LED sculptures that extended to the trees, and the music that swirled just as prettily in the air. She lost her footing a few times as they swam towards the music, but Sandor was always there to steady her.

She liked him. She especially liked wearing his shirt, and she had never liked anything so smelly. His scent reminded her of the Gallows show, his arms around her, and his bare skin slick against her own. 

They had had a lot of fun together. Sansa was glad she'd found him, or maybe it was the other way around. 

But she didn't think twice about letting go of him when she spotted Wylla and Jeyne. They were in front of a food truck with pretty pink popsicles in hand, and they beamed when they saw Sansa. She ran towards them and let them scoop her up in their arms. They shared giggles and smiles and a few friendly kisses wherever they were needed. 

"Where did you go?" Jeyne asked, trying to save her popsicle from sliding off its stick. "I missed you so much." 

"More importantly," Wylla cut in, "where on earth did you get that shirt?" She tugged at the hem that fell to Sansa's mid-thigh. That was when Sansa remembered Sandor. 

"My friend gave it to me," she said, turning to look behind her. "He's just over there." 

But he wasn't. 

There was no tall, dark man. There were none of his tattoos, or sharp smiles, or burnt skin. He was gone, quick as a shadow, and he had taken Sansa's cape with him. She frowned. 

"I'm sorry," Wylla said, non-apologetically. "Did you meet a _boy_?" 

Sansa blushed, and then her friends both knew. "He's more of a man I guess, but his name is Sandor. He saved me from falling, then he gave me water, and a lollipop, and then I gave him a hug. We went to a show—we saw Gallows, they were _so_ good—and then we ate fruit. And then we—we—" 

Sansa cut herself short. What _had_ they done together? 

"Well, I think we had sex, kind of, but not really. We traded clothes, too. I was cold. And whip-its—we definitely did whip-its. It was so fun." When her friends did nothing but blink at her, Sansa added, "But I missed you guys so much. You need to tell me everything that happened while I was gone." 

So they caught up, did more smiling together, and then went arm in arm to find the next best show. Sansa had missed her friends, truly, but every now and then she'd glance over her shoulder. He was never there. 

Her heart broke just a little bit as their shared reality transformed into memory. His heat, his smiles, and his sweet words were ghosts now. So they haunted Sansa, benevolently, as she carried on into the night and wondered if she ever truly knew him. 

She didn't see him again until the very last day of the festival, the morning that they were all supposed to leave. Packing camp had been a disaster. Sansa was fairly certain she never wanted to see Wylla's stupid face again. How on earth had she made friends with the absolute meanest girl in all Seven Kingdoms? 

Wylla had done plenty of infuriating things, but her commentary on Sansa's t-shirt was the final straw. 

"You know that thing stinks, right?" She had told Sansa as they scrubbed their faces partway clean with stale face wipes. "It smells _awful._ I literally refuse to sit in the car with you if you're going to wear it. It's totally ugly, too. I can't believe you hooked up with a fucking wook. And an old one at that." 

Sansa wasn't inclined to violence, but in that moment, she imagined plucking all of Wylla's dumb green hairs from her self-righteous scalp and putting a match to them. Wylla had no idea what she was talking about. 

Instead, Sansa stormed off before letting her not-so-great friend see her cry for the fourth time. All the tears had happened after that night, a never ending flash flood of irrational sorrow, and she was so sick of it. 

So she went searching for Sandor. She had technically been searching for him since the moment she had lost him, but he was searching especially hard now. She stalked through each and every campground, winding her way around half-dismantled tents and the sturdy trees that sheltered them. She raced against the hot threat of tears behind her eyes. 

They ended up falling, but only because she found him. 

Then she ran. 

She trampled leaves, twigs, and trash as she tore through the woods. His tent was nothing but a green heap in the dirt, but she would recognize those broad shoulders anywhere. He was busy packing his gear into a plastic tub. 

"Sandor," she cried, and he turned around just in time for Sansa to throw herself into his arms. 

Seven hells, she had missed those arms. 

"The little angel came down from her cloud," he mused, his words landing gently on the top of her head. They held each other for a blissful minute, but eventually Sandor let go. "How does it feel to be back on solid ground?" 

Sansa lost control of her face. There were tears, of course, and her jaw trembled as if she'd just plunged into the Milkwater. Sandor tried to hold her together, his strong hands pressed firmly against her cheeks. 

"That bad, huh?" 

Sansa nodded, then sniffed. If her roll had been heaven, the comedown was a veritable hell—all seven hells, actually. Sandor's touch made her feel better, though. His thumbs were gentle as he eased away her tears. 

"There now, sweet girl. You're going to melt if you keep this up. Everything's going to be just fine. You made it through to the other side, that's the important part. You're still here. Your pretty little heart is still beating." 

Sansa gave him a watery smile. "I brought you something." 

She unzipped her fanny pack and immediately found what she wanted. She had been carrying it since yesterday, in hopes that she would find her missing friend.

He laughed at her. 

"You didn't." 

"I did." This time she delivered a bigger smile, a teasing smile like the ones he used. "Give me your wrist." 

Sandor surrendered, and Sansa slid his present up over his hand. When she was done, a black hound rested on his wrist, made up of twelve bracelets that she had painstakingly beaded. It had taken her half a day to get right, and more than enough tears, but she had succeeded. 

Sandor had his candy. It fit perfectly, too. Sansa blessed the gift with a kiss. 

"You're my friend, for real now. You can't forget me." 

"I wasn't going to forget, little angel." 

Sansa blinked up at him. "I'm not an angel anymore.” 

"Do you want your wings back?"

The question was so sincere that she wanted to cry again. She was just a girl, just Sansa Stark, woefully landbound. She never really belonged in the sky. No matter how high she flew, she always came tumbling down. 

_But he caught me_. 

Sansa pushed away her tears and smiled. 

"You can keep them," she replied. "But only if you promise me something." 

"What's that?"

"Promise me I can still be your little bird."

Sandor swallowed her up in a hug so tight he forced out all her air. "Of course," he answered, putting a kiss on top of her head. "You were always my little bird." 

She breathed deep, taking in Sandor's warmth until it became her entire universe. He was tall, and strong, and dark, and a little bit smelly. Everything she wasn't. But he had always known her, and she knew him now too. 

She was a little bird, and he was the hound who caught her. 

He was her friend. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> And if you're wondering what happens next, it's same thing that happens to all long distance rave baes that manage to get each other's numbers. 
> 
> Texting. 
> 
> Lots and lots of texting. 
> 
> I'll have a companion piece to this one coming out soon from Sandor's POV 🔥
> 
> In the meantime, I'm on twitter @_prettybadmagic and will post updates there! I'm juggling a few projects right now so that's the best place to find out what SanSan antics I'm currently up to ❤️
> 
> 'Til next time!


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